Temporal Peripatetics
by nornling
Summary: A scholarly soul can push the boundaries of the universe in the pursuit of knowledge. (Two-shot, accidentally a Dark!Hermione origin story)
1. Part I

**Temporal Peripatetics**

She was fourteen when she first manipulated time.

Her Head of House placed the Time Turner into her cupped hands as it were no more significant than handing over car keys. Hermione received it with studied nonchalance despite the awe and reverence that nearly overwhelmed her. Rapidly she had learned that she must pretend not to be surprised by anything, lest acknowledged gaps in knowledge should poke holes in the image she was careful to maintain. So she looked at her Professor and not the device while soaking in every word of Professor McGonagall's lecture on the rules of time travel. Rules. Those were good. Constraints. It would be chaos otherwise, right?

"We, and the Ministry, are placing a great deal of trust in you. Not that there's a whole lot that can be done with it, you see, but you could still travel about four hours forward or backwards. Any more than that would cause undue risk to your person. It is _strictly_ to be used _only_ to attend your classes. Are we clear?" The wrinkles around Professor McGonagall's mouth creased further, and she glowered over her folded hands at Hermione.

"Of course, Professor! I would never break your trust," she cried. "You can count on me, I promise!"

The wrinkles softened, as did her glare. "Yes, I believe we can."

Once back in the hallway, Hermione had a choice. She could either head straight to the library to analyze and research this fascinating artifact, or she could go straight into a more hands-on study. Curiosity overruled her nagging desire to read the instruction manual, so to speak.

Where could she go that would definitely be unoccupied no matter how far back she went? Not a bathroom stall, as was her first guess. How horrifying would it be if she appeared while someone _was_ using it? Still, that kind of absolute privacy was hard to find anywhere else in this bloody castle. Well, if a bathroom could hide an illegal potion and go undetected for a month, why couldn't that same place hide her for a few hours? Slipping the Time Turner under her shirt, she smoothed her uniform and walked briskly down the corridor to Moaning Myrtle's bathroom. Even though both the bathroom and Professor McGonagall's office were on the first floor, it was still quite a ways to get there. Her calves ached from the half-run.

Fortunately, the ghost girl was probably somewhere in the pipes. It didn't particularly matter where she was, as long as she wasn't there to bother Hermione.

Hermione sat- what would time travel feel like? would it make her dizzy? probably better to sit down, just in case- against the wall furthest from the door, the one connecting the stalls to the sinks. She eyed the sinks warily for a moment before turning back to the matter at hand. The device was quite small, fitting easily into the palm of her hand. It was also flat, probably for the convenience of wearing it as jewelry. A dial on the side connected to a thin rod clearly visible through the thick protective glass that made up the ornament. It's purpose, however, appeared to be executed entirely through that tiny little black cylinder.

She turned the dial only once; caution would behoove her until she knew exactly what she was dealing with. A force far greater than she could resist forced her eyes to shut, so she could only rely on touch and sound. There was only a faint buzz, and an increase in temperature so slight she may only have imagined it. When she was allowed to see once more, she looked around and noticed with no surprise that nothing in her environment had changed. Even Moaning Myrtle was still absent, or at least silent. A flick of her wand and a muttered, "Tempus," revealed that she'd gone back just a little more than an hour. The imprecision of it made her frown, but she supposed it did make sense. How effective of a measurement was a "turn", anyway? She would have to fiddle with it a little more to pin down exactly how far back a single degree would get her. Frustration and disappointment made her sigh, but if there was anything Hermione knew it was that one must work before they got to play.

She was still fourteen when she finally determined that she could use the device as she was meant to. She would be fourteen for some time, but for a far shorter period compared to her peers.

Once the tiniest of marks were etched onto the Time Turner by intervals of ten degrees, Hermione practiced sending herself through time by the tiniest and largest increments she could manage. Each degree controlled just about six seconds, making the full 360 degrees come to one hour. Convenient, that.

Just as Professor McGonagall had said, the dial would only turn four times in either direction. When she went full capacity the buzz would become louder and the heat would increase, causing nausea to form in her belly and head like carsickness. Unpleasant as it was, it lasted for only a few moments. What would more than four hours do to her body? The nausea would become worse, logically. Still, it was hard to predict symptoms when she could only access the very beginning of the process. Not that she really wanted to discover personally how broken the body becomes through excessive time travel, but curiosity was a beast she had no desire to tame and she didn't really feel that she had a choice.

The books in the Hogwarts Library didn't help, though she hadn't checked the Restricted section. Why would that sort of knowledge be Restricted, anyway? If anything, it would act as a warning. Perhaps information on time travel was closely guarded by the Ministry. It would make sense, after all, but then again why allow a third year to use such a device if they believed knowledge to be so dangerous to the public?

Maybe the research she wanted didn't exist. Maybe no one had gone very far at all. Maybe it was assumed that their grasp on time travel was tiny but safe.

It was arrogant to think that a barely-pubescent girl could accomplish more than fully grown, knowledgeable research teams. Hermione knew that. But still, once the thought entered her head it was nearly impossible to dislodge.

What could she do, with such limits? Well, all she could do: push the envelope.

True, she could only coax the Time Turner into giving her four hours at a time. But once those four hours were granted, who's to say she couldn't request more? If she took it in skips, it was possible to go back further. Or forward further, though she felt uneasy trespassing on the future. She became intimately acquainted with time-sickness, though she supposed that was the price she must pay for scholarly advancement. There were always costs for those sorts of things.

She was fifteen when she first _saw_ the accelerated passage of time.

At first it didn't seem hugely significant. Interesting, yes; it appeared to be a wonderful dynamic landscape of color. Less of a blur, and more... twinkly. There were no two the same in any given place, and even staring intently at a single point would produce a different color in the end than the beginning.

Beautiful, yes. Fascinating, yes. Helpful, not so much.

Still, it felt like progress.

It took many, many more travels before she was able to see each spot in more detail. They weren't just colors after all, but scenes. Minuscule creatures and objects shifted about, playing in no particular order and with no discernible sense of organization. It was difficult even to pick out a perspective, since there didn't seem to be one. Really, it was a wonder her brain could understand what was going on at all, as she'd never looked at the world from every angle at once. Perhaps it was due to adjustment. She'd started out seeing just colors, hadn't she?

The scenes took up so much of her thought and focus that it took a while before she realized that her other senses were assaulted in different ways as well. The buzzing, too, became more distinct. It was no longer just a drone, but a cacophony: voices, mostly, but also wind and creaks and some she couldn't even begin to identify. The heat and the nausea were less severe than they had been. While they hadn't gone completely, Hermione got the feeling that they were tentative, as if testing her to see whether she deserved comfort.

Hermione had no doubt in her mind that whatever it was she was dealing with was intelligent. Not in the way that she was intelligent, necessarily, with emotion and reason. This intelligence was the mindfulness of something unfettered by even space, and most assuredly not weighed down by feelings. This thing- for it wasn't a being, she knew that much- had the knowledge of everything that had ever been and ever would be, and the wisdom that that must lend was beyond Hermione's comprehension.

If a thing could be curious while simultaneously satisfying that curiosity, then that was how Hermione imagined the thing saw her. What an oxymoron.

She was approximately sixteen when she first lost control of the Time Turner.

Rather, she didn't suppose the problem was with the device. The Time Turner itself did very little except process her request, similar to a train ticket. Just what happened after she showed her ticket was up to the driver. The driver apparently decided that it would not move her the hour and a half necessary to make it to Muggle Studies, but instead a whole fortnight. That first time, as far as she could tell, was just to show her that it could happen. Unless she'd inadvertently fulfilled some purpose, which was also entirely probable. Once she got past the first few weeks of panic, her academic nature urged her to follow whatever path time led her down. Something told her that very few, if any, had gotten as far as she had.

Losing control, to the girl who micromanaged everything and everyone around her, was a nightmare. For a long time she struggled to keep her feet on the ground, as it were. But putting so much effort into staying grounded only strained her mind, and the concentration could really go into more useful things than clinging to a reality that no longer existed for her. So, she let go.

Almost immediately, the storm calmed. She was no longer going back further than she'd asked for every time she tried, and she was no longer forced to make up that time in the same way as everyone else. As soon as she let the current take her, an hour was an hour.

The time-sickness faded into nothing so gradually Hermione couldn't pinpoint exactly when it went away. Probably when it started whipping her around the timeline. There was a sense of fairness to it that Hermione liked.

Sometimes she would still end up somewhere different, but she was usually returned within a few hours. She didn't mind at all.

She was still sixteen when she was first transported without the Time Turner.

It started small, naturally. Tiny, just a few minutes. Then hours, then days, then weeks. It was jarring, certainly, but Hermione wasn't sure she could turn back at this point even if she tried. Why would she do that, though? She was two years older than her friends. It could seem like a small amount, until she considered that those years were made up of hours. She'd manipulated time so frequently she'd lost count. "Prolonged exposure" was a bit of an understatement at that point.

The worst times, though, were when she was moved in her sleep. Or in the middle of a project. Especially when she ended up somewhere entirely different from where she'd been before, like the middle of Muggle London or by the side of the road in some unfamiliar desert. Those were not only the least comfortable, but the most confusing. After a bit of thought she began to comprehend that space simply wasn't an issue for time. Or perhaps it was because wizards are already manipulators of space, so her power combined with time's...

She was exhausted and invigorated all at once. It was glorious and strenuous and a constant challenge, and Hermione had never enjoyed herself more.

Ron and Harry noticed, which said a lot in and of itself. They never noticed anything that didn't actively crawl down their throats, so the change in her must be decidedly pronounced. Perhaps it was also that she looked like a seventh year while she was supposed to be fourteen. She hated to admit it, but she was beginning to grow bored of them. She loved them dearly and would gladly kill and die for them, but their company grated on her already fragile tolerance.

The year in her proper time ended. Hermione excelled in all of her classes, but dropped Muggle Studies and Divination at Professor McGonagall's urging. She parted with the Time Turner with less reluctance than Professor McGonagall probably expected. Hermione saw the looks she gave her, like she was hiding something. And wasn't she?

Later that night she confirmed that time no longer needed the Time Turner to take her when it pleased. It had latched onto her.

Certainly she was far more successful in her research than she'd anticipated she would be.

Ron looked at her like a girl, something she would have been overjoyed about before this whole mess. Pride was there, but it was drowned by discomfort. Harry started looking at her differently as well, but not in the same way. It had been a stressful year for him, after all, and he needed someone to hold him up. Hermione, self-assured, compassionate, loving Hermione, was the ideal anchor. And really, wasn't that what she'd always wanted to be for him? She was uniquely suited to help him. She had all the time he could ask of her within her influence.

When the three parted at King's Cross station they promised to owl her. Of course they did.

She left with her parents, who seemed almost nervous to be collecting her. The feeling was mutual.

"You've grown," her mother commented, glancing at her in the rear-view mirror. "Just a few months ago you were our little girl, all baby fat and happiness!" Her parents shared a chuckle, but it sounded sad to Hermione's ears.

Hermione smiled and lied, "I'm still your little girl." They probably knew it wasn't true. The rest of the drive may as well have been spent in silence.

She must have been seventeen when she first willed herself into another time. Maybe eighteen. She'd lost track, and did it matter, really?

It was downright silly to be concerned with going to the Yule ball on someone's arm, so she wasn't. Viktor sought her out on his own, and he did so for all the right reasons, so she agreed. She'd already turned Ron down, and knew that there would be conflict later, but she was flattered that someone, someone famous, would see something special in her. Besides that, he was her age, even if he didn't know that.

"You don't go anywhere without that planner, do you?" he asked, referring to the book peeking out of her robe pocket. The sun hid behind a film of silver clouds, casting a subdued light on the grounds. It was chilly, but they had warming charms. It was mundane and peaceful and _boring_.

"It's important," she said, and changed the subject. It was better for everyone to think she was just hyper-organized for the hell of it. Really, though, jumping around so often made it difficult to keep track of important events. Especially now, when this man tried to monopolize every bit of her time he could grab hold of. Relationships were exhausting, Hermione decided.

Ron pitched a fit, predictably. Hermione responded with fury and tears, also predictably. She left the room and, feeling sorry for herself, wished to be somewhen else. She was already all dressed up, wasn't she? Why waste all the effort she'd put into her appearance? Maybe she could recover her equilibrium at some other Yule function.

The familiar voices filled her ears, whispering what sounded like consoling words, and the scenes swam before her eyes. Her hand stretched out and touched one that appeared to show another ballroom, with strangers having the time of their lives. She could use that sort of unbridled joy.

A blink later, she found herself standing near the wall. The room was huge and dimly lit. Outside it was dark, and Hermione moved toward the window. A surreptitious flick of her wand told her that it was nearly midnight on December 21st, 1952. She had no clue just _where_ she was, but she couldn't bring herself to care.

Many experiences taught her that the "rules" of time travel were bullshit. Time preserved its own, and if she weren't meant to be in a place then it would not allow her to be there. It was as simple as that, so interacting with her environment wouldn't do any harm.

Footsteps approached, but Hermione didn't turn around. Silently, she marveled at how swiftly her attention was sought. She observed the man's reflection in the window. As far as she could tell, he was an exceedingly handsome man, with even, symmetrical features and a slender build.

"Excuse me," said the man.

Hermione took her sweet time in acknowledging him, but he didn't seem to mind. "Yes?" She didn't bother with being endearing or cute. Her mood, while improving rapidly, was still too sour for that sort of farce.

"My name is Alphard Black. Would you do me the honor of dancing with me?" A grin stretched across his face, urging her to agree. If she was in luck, mischief was on the menu and Hermione would gladly partake. He took her outstretched hand in his own and led her to the middle of the dance floor. As Alphard led her in a waltz, he explained, "I am led to believe by the expression on my lovely sister's face that she plans to feed me my own limbs for supper if I embarrass her in any way, and who could resist such a tempting offer? I mean, I could strip down and start jumping on the tables, but doing something so dramatic would likely give her an aneurysm. Vexing her into an early death isn't quite my goal, so we'll begin with a lack of decorum in regards to the opposite sex. Should you find the idea intolerable, please do feel free to run away screaming. I believe that would mortify Walburga just as well."

"I pegged you well," Hermione remarked, an answering grin forming. "Do as you will, Mr Black."

"We can begin by calling one another by our names, if you're amenable." He really was a marvelous dancer, and the twinkle in his eyes was disarming, to say the least.

"In that case, I'm Hermione," she said. "I was hoping for some form of entertainment, but I hadn't expected something as fun as this. Do tell me, why are you seeking to irritate your sister? And why request the aid of a strange woman whose personality and connections are entirely unknown to you?"

Alphard laughed, a lovely full-throated baritone that tugged at the corners of Hermione's lips. "Besides the hilarity of her reaction, you mean? Well, if you must know, she's talking far too much about her fiancee. Orion is a right git, and her cousin at that."

"Her cousin? I can't say I'm horribly surprised, as impolite as that is to say to the brother of the bride. And the cousin of the groom. Are they not concerned about the heirs?" She was pressing just a bit too hard, toeing the line into cruelty. She wanted to feel guilty, but her inward search revealed not even a single drop of remorse.

Fortunately- or unfortunately, Hermione wasn't sure what she'd wanted from him- he didn't appear offended in the slightest and even agreed with her. "Well, at least we know exactly what they'll look like, yeah?"

Hermione giggled, a sound which turned into a squeal at the sharp pinch to her waist. "No need to get violent, now! So your response to her excessive pride is embarrassment? Some brother you are."

"I'm younger, and by a few years, so I believe I'm allowed. That's what I was born for, right?"

His hair was absurd. His everything was absurd, when Hermione thought about it. He did have a point: keeping the genes within the family discounted unpleasant surprises as far as appearance went. If she could say one thing for the Blacks, it was that they'd perfected the art of natural beauty. Alphard watched her with amusement in his grey (yes, grey. What's inbreeding for if not the hoarding of recessive genes?) eyes.

"Are you quite finished?" he said, poking her side again.

"Oh, hush," she chuckled. "Now about my second question. Why me?"

Alphard shrugged, a surprisingly elegant motion considering both arms were occupied in whirling her around. "No real reason; it was precisely because I had no idea how you would react. No great cosmic power at play here. My apologies if that's disappointing to you."

"Not at all," she said dryly, trying to keep the smirk off of her face. "Only curiosity, and hoping you didn't have some nefarious agenda. How old are you, anyway?"

"Have you noticed wrinkles?" Alphard said, grinning. "After all, I've hit the ripe old age of twenty."

Hermione nodded. "You will die soon," she remarked sagely. "Though surely Walburga will die first."

"If that is so, I must perform my task quickly. You were warned," Alphard said. "I'm going to do something shocking, so please don't hit me." Before she could respond, his lips crashed into hers.

She'd kissed before. Viktor, naturally; an Irish girl named Emily in the eighties; and Adrian Pucey, once. This one was different. Not better, by any means- she wasn't sure if anything would ever surpass Emily's- but this was a production. It was a kiss borne not of attraction, but impishness. It was good, and somehow exactly what she needed. She couldn't remember grinning having ruined the efficiency quite as much as just then, and something about that made her happy.

The scandal didn't cause a huge scene, as Hermione had half-expected. Alphard assured her, however, that old Purebloods have memories for deviance, and this would be brought up for years to come. "Probably even after I'm dead," he said with a shrug and a twinkle.

When she returned to her own time, with glowing cheeks and a wide smile, she saw Ron in the Common Room. He ignored her, and she could honestly say that she didn't care.

It was odd, being an adult when she was supposed to be a freshman in high school. If she attended a Muggle high school, of course. It appealed to her in a way, but she supposed she could do it at any time she wanted, so there was no need to drop everything just to do that. And they encouraged regular attendance, which Hermione didn't find herself favoring at all.

Rather than allowing herself to be hindered in her learning, Hermione spent many (many) of her extra hours studying. She had the unique ability to meet anyone she wanted to, if she were willing to work for it, so not all of her learning was read. Wand in hand, Hermione went anywhere and anywhen she fancied.

Having to come back to her original time was becoming a hassle. There was so much more for her! She'd met the Founders, for Merlin's sake, and Nimue as well! And yet, she still had to attend History of Magic, a class she could easily have taught herself, with bored fourth year students. She daydreamed of leaving and never coming back. It would be perfect, it was well within her grasp, and the things she could learn were limitless.

As absolutely wonderful as that would be, she couldn't. Or wouldn't, rather. Harry still needed her, and in a way she still needed him. He would survive the Triwizard Tournament if she had to burn the whole bloody maze to the ground. She had no illusions that his trials would end there, because _obviously_ they wouldn't, but she would drag him through each one of them until he died a peaceful death in his sleep after a few centuries. He _needed_ her.

Harry was the only thing that could have kept her there.

So she sat in the bleachers next to Ron and stared so hard at the impenetrable green vine wall that it was a wonder it didn't catch fire. If she weren't so emotionally invested in its outcome, it would have been the worst spectator sport imaginable. As it was, it had her full and undivided attention.

Maybe she was the first to see when he arrived. She couldn't say for sure. She could say that she was the first to start moving toward him, though she was overtaken by Cedric Diggory's distraught father.

She should have cared about Cedric. He'd been a nice boy, fair and kind. She should have cared, but she didn't. Not even afterwards, when she searched for any sorrow, any sadness at all, and found only regret for Harry. At the time, with all the noise and emotional overload from all directions, she clung to Harry's torso with single-minded determination. She held him even as he held Cedric. She held him when he let go.

Professor Moody took him inside. It's not like she really could have said anything, and he flat-out forbade her from coming along. Because it wouldn't do to hex her professor, she reluctantly let them leave.

To her _fury_ , she found out hours later what happened. Professor Moody wasn't Moody at all, but an escaped Death Eater whom everyone had believed had successful lived up to the name of his organization. Barty Crouch Junior. If the Dementor hadn't gotten there first, she would have killed him.

No one would take Harry from her again. Not after that.

He curled up against her in the soft darkness of the boy's dormitory, muffling his sobs into her neck. Even after he fell asleep, she stroked his hair and held him close. Time didn't sweep her up, almost as if it knew her limits. She would not have left his side for anything.

Ron was jealous and awkward and silent. His every emotion was so transparent to her, and she found she didn't care to ease his discomfort. Harry needed her far more than Ron did. Actually, she often doubted whether Ron needed her at all. Wanted her around, certainly. Held her in high esteem, obviously. Would be upset if she were to disappear, surely. But he didn't need her, and she didn't need him as much as she loved him. Without noticing she'd made her choice, and Harry would be her first priority without a doubt.

Rather than feel guilty, she just felt a vague sense of sympathy.

It was harder than ever to allow Harry to go with his aunt and uncle. She'd never liked doing it, and always felt like she was complicit in the abuse by allowing him to return to it every summer, but this time only the thought that Harry wouldn't appreciate being kidnapped held her back.

Her parents watched her with worried eyes, but they let her leave the house every day without putting up a fuss. She was still their rule-abiding, practical, sensible daughter, and they didn't think for even a second that she would do something to get herself in any serious trouble. Besides that, they didn't know that the Trace on her wand was gone and she could use it as she pleased. Not in her house, naturally, because the Ministry still kept tabs on her residence, but anywhere else was fine as long as she was careful about it. Apparating to Harry's neighborhood required next to no effort. She'd taken the test years ago, so although she wasn't registered under her own name she felt confident in her ability to do it safely.

His neighborhood was so cookie-cutter, even more so than her own. Every house looked the same, save the different degrees of care put into their yards. All of the grass was lush green and a uniform length, but some houses had flowers and bushes while others were more spartan. Harry's house was somewhere in the middle. Neatly trimmed bushes lined the wall on either side of the door, and flower pots flanked the front door like guardians. Like they could stop her, she thought, pocketing her wand.

She knocked three times in quick succession, each rap crisp and proper. Harry's aunt Petunia opened the door with a polite smile, which Hermione had no trouble returning. "Hello, my name is Hermione Granger. My mother is starting a little service, for those families with children whom they don't feel comfortable leaving at home alone. There's no charge, and we're just trying to get the word out. Does your family have children?"

Petunia nodded slowly. "We do, but I stay home and watch them."

"And that's just marvelous. But we know how much trouble kids get into when they're bored. Our goal is to keep these children busy and productive, and most importantly, out of their parents' hair. Life doesn't take breaks, and we just want to take away a bit of stress. We take in children of all ages, but we do tend to focus on the older ones, just because their capacity for causing trouble is much higher." Her tone was professional and cordial, but with an underlying steel wire. She tried her best to channel Professor McGonagall, and by the look on Petunia's face she would guess she was succeeding.

"That does sound very useful," Petunia admitted. "What sort of things will you do to keep them busy?" She seemed to be actually considering it, which was good. Hermione wouldn't have preferred Confunding her, but she would do it if she had to. Hopefully that wouldn't be necessary.

"It really does depend on the age. We aren't focused on fun, however. Much of it is community service. What better way to use their time than to help maintain our home's good image? Not only does it benefit everyone, it builds character and responsibility." Hermione twitched a wrinkle out of her skirt. Petunia was sold and she knew it. "And remember, it's free of charge."

Harry's aunt agreed, and Hermione offered to personally pick him up from and return him to the house each day to make sure he actually went where he was supposed to go. Petunia warned her in low tones that Harry was an ill-behaved boy, and to keep an especially close eye on him. Hermione thanked her for the foreknowledge and assured her that they were more than capable of keeping him well in hand.

The next day Petunia "introduced" her nephew to Hermione. He stayed silent, to Hermione's relief. She marched off with him to "her" car, a shiny little white rental. It was meticulously clean and well-maintained, and it gave exactly the right vibe Hermione wanted. Harry said nothing until they were out of Petunia's sight.

"Hermione? What's this?" he asked, reaching one hand forward to touch the dashboard, as if trying to gather tactile evidence of the truth of the situation.

"You didn't want to spend all day, every day with them, did you?" She glanced away from the road and at him. Her smile didn't falter, but some of her satisfaction drained at the trepidation on his face. "It's fine. I didn't use magic on them at all. And you can hang out with me, right? We'll do whatever you want."

Harry finally looked at her. The sunlight glinted off his glasses and revealed the bronze tones in his jet hair. "How do you know how to drive? You aren't old enough for a license yet."

"Time Turner," she reminded him. "Besides, as long as I don't mess up no one will bother to check."

"I suppose," Harry said.

"All right, Harry. Tell me what you're thinking." She stared straight ahead, glad for the excuse of having to watch the road. She'd been anticipating happiness, and instead she got wariness and bemusement.

He took a moment to respond, and then said, "Why now?"

"I didn't have the ability to, before." Was that it? Really?

The boy relaxed, though it was more of a slump than anything else. Not at ease, but no longer taut, like he'd lost the use of his muscles. "I'm tired," he said.

"You have every right to be." Hermione took one hand off the steering wheel and stretched it out toward Harry, inviting him to take it and accept the comfort of physical contact. He did without hesitation, intertwining their fingers. Their joined hands rested on the console between them, her thumb smoothing over the back of his. "When you're with me, you can be whatever you want. And if that's just tired, then fine. It's okay."

"Thank you. I love you."

"I love you too."

That day they went to a park and sat in the shade of a willow tree, his head in her lap and her hand stroking his hair. He fell asleep that way, and Hermione kept watch.

She didn't know how old she was when she first took another person back with her. Maybe she was still seventeen, or eighteen, or even nineteen.

Hermione grabbed his hand and blinked them away to July of 1978, turning on her heel to make it seem as if she were merely moving them through space.

"I didn't know you could Apparate," he said, squinting.

"You don't know a lot of things," she said.

They stood in Muggle London, looking out on a busy road. Pedestrians bustled around them. As usual, no one noticed their sudden arrival, appearing to think they'd been there the whole time.

Hours passed with Hermione dragging Harry around. As she'd expected, they met no one they knew. London was huge, so even if there was a danger of someone knowing who they were they would never meet.

She took them back to their own time, a few hours ahead of when they left. He was returned to his aunt's house exactly on time, the same as every day. Harry was none the wiser.

From then on she took him with her, though never more than a few decades. It wouldn't do to make him question why cars and electricity didn't exist.

Hogwarts welcomed them all back with cloudy skies and a glittering Black Lake. Hermione breathed in freedom and learning and companionship and... found it bitter. She wasn't nearly as excited to reunite with Hogwarts as Hogwarts was to reunite with her.

Three years. Three more years in that place. What was three years to _her?_ A long time, as it turned out, since she easily doubled that time with her temporal trips.

Professor McGonagall watched her with wary eyes. Professor Dumbledore watched her as well, though expressed nothing and said even less. Even Professor Snape stepped carefully around her. None were afraid, as far as Hermione could tell, but they were tense. Why should they be afraid, anyway? She didn't plan on doing, or having done, anything worth being afraid of.

She went to class and did her work, but she didn't care anymore. Hadn't for a while, if she were honest. Apparently, condensing five years of growth and change into two years drew a few odds looks. Her roommates had no idea what to do with her, to Hermione's amusement.

The Ministry fiasco was mostly secondhand for her, as she was unconscious for the majority of the action. She wasn't there to hold Harry when he lost Sirius. Harry withdrew from everyone, including her, and she didn't know how to fix him. It's hard to comfort someone who doesn't want to be comforted. She couldn't even talk to him!

Ginny succeeded where she failed. _Failed_. Fuck.

Time wrapped her in its embrace and swept her off her feet, and Hermione gave in to the temptation, spending nearly three days in the past for every hour she spent in Harry's time.

She was twenty-one when she first killed. Twenty-one years, four months, and seventeen days, to be exact. Magic was a wonderful thing.

Well, it wasn't like the murder was intentional. Dolohov was still alive to scar her in 1996, so even if she had tried to kill him it wouldn't have worked. Time wouldn't have allowed it. Something about that comforted her. She could do _whatever she wanted_ to the man who'd earned her wrath, and it would change nothing.

He was twenty-one when she chose to find him. The symmetry was appealing, after all. She would prove to him and herself that she surpassed him in every way, even though he'd bested her when he was triple her age. It was so _easy._ She'd never tried to use the Cruciatus before, but it worked for her on the first attempt. She wanted to _hurt_ him. She wanted to break his mind and body and leave him a pile of blood and bone. Time wouldn't allow that, but pain would do almost as well.

At least, it was easy until his sister came in to check on him. She was so pale and slight, looking like a princess who'd never done any work in her life. And wasn't she, really? The Reducto went straight through her chest, leaving only blood and bone. His sister was an excellent replacement, as it turned out. And that, she discovered, was the best way to ruin Antonin Dolohov. He screamed and screamed and screamed, and collapsed in on himself when she branded his torso.

She left when he finally lost consciousness, refusing to erase his memory. He would remember her face and her voice every time he thought of his sister, or felt the burn scars. He would remember that he'd been conquered easily, effortlessly. Even better, he wouldn't know why.

The looks the staff gave her made sense, then. Wariness grew into alarm, and, in some cases, fear. Killing another person cast a shadow on one's aura, as did torture. She didn't suppose her aura had been particularly light before, but now a line had been crossed. She carried it in her magic and the way she held herself, and it was easily visible to those who knew how to look for it. Those who didn't know still felt a sense of unexplained unease. Harry and Ron, as always, were oblivious. Most everyone else subconsciously avoided her.

Naturally, there were those who didn't. Some people were attracted to that danger, most specifically some Slytherins. The teasing tapered off and nearly stopped. Zabini and Nott watched her with speculative eyes. Malfoy went to great lengths to avoid addressing her in any way. She was still a Mudblood, and still endured censure and obloquy for it, but it didn't really matter anymore.

Dumbledore still said nothing, but more than once she caught his eyes trained on her. She didn't look directly into them, for her Occlumency wasn't nearly strong enough to withstand focused attention from him. She'd learned all she could from books, but the real practice would come from training under one accomplished in the art. It was actually a rare and advanced skill. She just happened to be surrounded on all sides from Masters concentrated in a single area.

So she researched. Occlumens tended to be reclusive, paranoid beings, while Legilimens tended to be more flamboyant. It was far easier to find mention of Legilimens than Occlumens. It was also rare, apparently, for any one person to be accomplished in both.

Besides that, Legilimency was once regarded as evil, practiced almost exclusively by Dark witches and wizards. Hermione didn't fancy making her presence known to such people, but she began to feel it may be necessary. That is, until an idea hit her. Snape would likely not be in any position to teach her at any point in his life, but Dumbledore would be. As she understood it, he was a bored young man, associating with simpletons and desperate to show off his intelligence. The irony was fantastically appealing. She would learn Legilimency and Occlumency from the very man she was trying to protect her mind from!

This goal would require more planning than usual. Dumbledore was clever and had a long memory, so discrepancies would be unacceptable.

She could not approach him first after he began teaching at Hogwarts, as he would be guarded and unwilling to repeat his mistakes. Before that, though, and perhaps after Grindelwald, would be just fine. She believed, anyway.

It wouldn't do to show up suddenly at his lowest moment. That just wouldn't be logical. She would have to introduce herself slowly, perhaps even years beforehand. Unfortunately, that would mean making several appearances at Hogwarts. Everything would have to be perfect, from her uniform to the various glamours she would have to put on.

Rather than relying solely on books, she made a trip to late-1800's Hogwarts. A strong notice-me-not charm concealed her century-inappropriate Muggle clothing, even though it was covered by black witch's robes. For the most part, students were encouraged to dress casually. Girls weren't distinguished by affluence, as every one wore a standard black uniform with long sleeves and loose skirts absent of ruffles or ribbons. Black robes were draped over these uniforms, disguising any hint of figure. Boys had only slightly more freedom, but most wore black slacks and closed robes. The individuality came out in the hairstyles, which varied from simple braids to complicated twists. As antiquated as she'd considered the fashion even in her own time, it had clearly come a long way.

When she considered herself ready, she cast a glamour that made her appear to be an eleven-year-old girl and made sure to be seen by a young Albus in the library, or the Great Hall, or even classes. Only Albus noticed her, as her charms had designed it to be. They didn't speak until his fourth year.

He studied alone often, as even his most ardent admirers couldn't keep up with the hours he devoted to it. Hermione, pretending to be a Ravenclaw girl, conducted her own research at the table directly next to his. Although her spell, attuned to him specifically, forced his attention to focus on her as often as would be considered natural, she made sure never to so much as glance in his direction.

Attraction in any sense of the word was fairly easy to manufacture. The first step was proximity. She would be everywhere he looked, whether in others' company or alone. He grew accustomed to the sight of her. The second step was to match him. She must be intelligent, knowledgeable, powerful, and even to some degree as physically attractive as him. The first three were laughably simple. She'd spent almost as many years as he'd been alive learning as much as she could conceive of, and beyond that had almost a century's worth of magical advancements on him. The brightest witch of her age, wasn't she?

Hermione approached him first. It was right before Christmas break, according to her Tempus. Only the most dedicated were still in the library, of which Albus was obviously one.

"Excuse me, Mr Dumbledore," she began, hovering over him and the table. "May I sit?"

Albus nodded, tracking her movements closely. She lowered herself into the chair across from him, setting her armful of books down.

"I've been looking for information for weeks now on magic having to do with the mind. Specifically, Occlumency and Legilimency. The books here only mention them in passing, and I don't have access to books other than those here in the library." She smoothed her skirt over her legs, crossing her feet neatly at the ankles.

Interest spread over his expression. "I can't say I've heard of either of those things," he admitted cheerfully. "But I would be happy to aid in your search."

"Oh, thank you!" she cried, keeping her voice quiet. "What I know of them comes from these," here she gestured to the pile of books, "if you should like to look them over. Just cast Scoporatio over them."

He leaned forward ever so slightly, placing his forearms on the table. "Scoporatio? This is also unknown to me."

"Hm?" Hermione looked up, surprise etched into her expression. "It's an idea finding spell, usually using keywords. You just wave your wand in an elliptical motion over the book or books, like this," she demonstrated, moving her wand in a lateral oval encompassing all of the books, "and say 'Scoh-poh-ray-shee-oh'. You see?" The books inched away from one another and flipped to the first match. "When you're done with that passage, tap the book and it will move to the next mention. Here, you try."

Albus, a quick study, followed her instructions over his own book and watched the pages turn. "This should be immensely useful, thank you," he said, looking directly into her eyes. Whether it was to convey his sincerity or to try to read her Hermione could only guess.

"Could you owl me over the break if you find anything pertinent? Please?" She tilted her head to the side and met his gaze head on, allowing her eyes to fill with hints of knowledge and power, directly belying her innocent mien.

"I would be happy to," he said, "but that will be difficult since I don't know your name."

Hermione laughed, flashing bright white teeth. "I'm sorry, I completely forgot. My name is Lark, Lark Mender." She held out her hand and allowed him to nod over it. "I'm sure I've kept you from your own projects long enough. I eagerly await your owl." She stood and disappeared into the shelves, where she willed herself into the next week.

Her future Headmaster would be at his home by now, or perhaps he'd accepted an invitation to spend the holiday with someone else's family. It didn't particularly matter to Hermione, as long as he wasn't in the castle.

Owls cared little about names. They relied on their master's concept of the recipient in some faint sort of telepathy. This ability was unique to owls, explaining why one would only occasionally see messengers belonging to any other species. Those countries without an indigenous owl population used other methods, but none of these have the ability to deliver without needing an address or a real name. Assuming Albus would use an owl to communicate with her, the fact that she'd given him an alias wouldn't matter.

She stayed in the Room of Requirement, which took care of the majority of her needs. That included the books containing the information she'd asked Albus to find, but her request of him wasn't directly for her own benefit. The more he researched, the more interested he would become, and by the time she contacted him he would have a working practical knowledge of the subject.

His writing was still as flowing and elegant as it would be in her own time, and just as illegible. She was fortunate to have experience in deciphering his script. They continued their correspondence for all two weeks of the break, and when it came time for the students to return Hermione made herself absent. For nearly a month, actually.

Occasionally she would allow him to see her, and she would teach him new spells and drop hints of knowledge that she "clearly" thought he would know. After graduation she dropped off the map completely.

The glamour had had to be adjusted slightly with every year, and she was relieved to finally be able to drop it entirely. It was the summer of 1900, after the whole mess with Grindelwald, when she contacted him again.

Well, she didn't suppose she could consider it "contacting". She'd merely arranged to bump into him in Godric's Hollow, the place which he would be stuck in until his brother graduated. He would be heartbroken and guilty, and just perfect for the plucking.

It was easy, ridiculously so. All she had to do was be kind and intelligent, and he soaked in her attention like a sponge. She was a font of benign knowledge and compassion, exactly what he needed during that time. She went most everywhere with him, a notice-me-not over the both of them, and he reveled in her company. Redemption and nostalgia all rolled up into one person. He taught her what he knew just to see her smile.

Legilimency was the first thing. He had her practice on him, and even her mind was gentle and soothing. She learned so many things about him- his childhood, his father, his friends. His mental shields blocked the things he was ashamed of showing her, most notably about his sister and Grindelwald. It wasn't long, though, before he showed her that too. She clasped his hands in her own and told him that his mistake would not define him, and he still had so many years left in him with which to make amends.

While she was excellent at Legilimency, after months of practice, her real talent was in Occlumency. She suspected it was because of the sheer number of secrets she had, which caused her to throw all of her focus on keeping Albus from seeing them. Pretty much her whole life up to that point would be completely off-limits. Where it took her months of constant and diligent study to master Legilimency, she mastered Occlumency in a matter of weeks.

When she determined she'd learned all she could from the nineteen-year-old boy, she left.

She was twenty-three when he died. A part of her mourned for the young man she'd gotten to know so well, but the rest of her wouldn't, or couldn't, care. She comforted Harry. That was all she could do.

They spent the summer of 1997 together, as they'd spent the previous two. That is, until the Order contacted her and asked for her help in moving Harry safely from his aunt's house. She agreed, but she wasn't stupid enough anymore to trust that their plan would work. She told Harry to say his goodbyes and then transported him to the Burrow. Dedalus Diggle and Hestia Jones still took his relatives to safety, not that it mattered one way or the other to Hermione.

The Advance Guard never got the chance to set out, because as soon as Harry and Hermione showed up at the Burrow the Weasley's informed everyone else. Moody demanded to know what she'd done and how she'd done it, but Hermione gave only nonsense answers, such as, "we were carried by an army of pixies" or "the moles dug us a tunnel". There was little he could do to her and they both knew it, and as far as Moody was concerned she hadn't actually done anything wrong.

Maybe Professor McGonagall would have been able to guess, but the retired Auror probably had no idea she'd ever had a Time Turner. Very few people did. He couldn't even use his mediocre Legilimency to take the answer from her, to his obvious frustration. Paranoid old man, certain that every little thing he didn't know was part of an evil conspiracy.

Hermione suffered through the heat of that summer, and Harry's plot to steal away to complete Dumbledore's grand mission. She humored him and Ron and just did her best to prepare. There wasn't a whole lot more to add to her already-stocked bag, and anything she needed she could retrieve at any point.

Rufus Scrimgeour handed her a book of fairy tales from Dumbledore, and she pretended to be confused for Harry's sake.

She smiled at Viktor and watched the international Quidditch star flounder before her before she took pity on him and led him out to dance. Ron's baleful stare followed her through every step and spin.

 _Naturally_ everything was ruined. _Obviously_ none of them could savor even a single joyous event. _Clearly_ if no one actually attending the wedding would destroy it then it would come from Death Eaters. _Of course._ Why had she expected anything else?

Harry and Ron were whisked away and she handed them Muggle clothing, all the while ignoring catcalls from drunk Muggle men. They fought Dolohov and Rowle and she bound their memories. Not Obliviated them, as she led the boys to believe, but left them disoriented enough that they couldn't follow them.

Grimmauld Place was a welcome refuge for all of them. Hermione had so many pleasant memories about it, largely from visiting Alphard. Whenever he asked too many questions she would drop off the face of the earth for a few months until he learned that it would get him nowhere. Alphard accepted her sudden appearances in his bedroom with relative ease, compared to how she imagined anyone else would react.

She paid him a visit that night, when her boys were asleep. As it happened, Alphard was in his room when she showed up, and she snuggled into his down comforter while she waited for him to notice.

"Galatea, I know you're there," Alphard said finally, still not turning to face her.

Hermione yawned. "What a poor host you are! You would ignore your guest?"

Alphard stood from his desk, on which there appeared to be piles of documents, and sat delicately on the edge of his own bed. "I must confess I'm relieved at your choice of words, 'guest' rather than 'lady'." She could always count on him to be smiling. Always.

"Oh, hush," she said, her suppressed giggle coloring her words with affection and mirth. Determined as usual to catch him off guard, she tangled her fist in the curls on the back of his head and pulled him back so he lay in her lap. It wasn't the first time she'd done that, admittedly, but it still surprised him.

"Definitely not a lady," he remarked, looking up at her through sinfully long lashes. "But your name does suit you."

"Marble is better than flesh, isn't it?" Hermione quipped, her hair falling around her bent head so it blocked the dim light.

He laughed, soothing her anxieties as it usually did. "You know that's not what I meant." One hand reached up to tug on a strand of her hair, and she jerked back before flicking his forehead. "Ow! You know, maybe I would like you better as a statue."

Hermione scoffed. "I'm quite sure any man who could worship a statue suffers from delusions. And that would put quite the damper on our friendly banter, wouldn't it?"

"I don't know," Alphard drawled, "Magic is good for a great many things."

"So I'd squirm if you were to jab at me, is that it? I'm wounded, sir. You value me only for my gelatinous qualities."

"Don't forget your looks," he added, smirking. Really, he was so beautiful it was ridiculous. She could hardly take him seriously when he looked like a fallen angel, which she supposed was part of why he acted the way he did.

"I rarely do," she said, scratching his scalp gently as if he were a cat. Before they could continue on that subject, she scooted out from under the covers and crawled over to lay beside him. Her legs bent at the knees and her toes touching the floor. Alphard watched her in speculative silence, the smile having flattened into something more pensive. In response, Hermione turned and cuddled into his side, drawing her legs up onto the bed. This wasn't new either.

For several moments there was nothing except the beating of Alphard's heart and both of their breathing. Just as Hermione was beginning to become drowsy, he finally asked, "Why?" His body tensed, as if prepared to trap her there should she decide to leave as she so often did.

It was a different question than she was used to. He always asked her _how_ : how she got through the wards, how she appeared without anyone knowing, _how_. This time it was _why_ , and she was willing to answer. "You'll have to be more specific," she murmured, voice somewhat muffled.

"Why are you _here?_ With me, I mean? You could probably be just about anywhere you want to be, but you're here." She couldn't see his eyes, so she couldn't tell just what he was feeling. Legilimency was a last resort, not for petty things such as this.

"You make me feel better." Hermione traced patterns on his chest absently, if only so she could focus on something solid. "No one does that quite like you do."

He didn't respond, and his muscles didn't relax. She was almost asleep when his voice rumbled, "I should like to kiss you, Galatea, if you're amenable."

Her eyes opened and she lifted her head, searching his eyes and his mind and finding only sincerity. Suddenly the situation didn't seem quite so trivial. "I am," she said, and he bent down and pressed his lips to hers.

The angle was awkward at first, with his torso rising up halfway to be able to meet her. Realizing this, Hermione lifted herself up onto her hands and knees and straddled him, purring into his mouth when he wrapped one hand around her waist and the other in her hair. His scent, his taste, appealed to her. It was musk and lemon and mint, a curious mixture that had her nipping and exploring with more ferocity than she'd planned. This time she didn't feel at all like grinning, and she didn't think he did either.

Still, she pulled away first, savoring his groan. "Do you want me to stay?" she asked, promise lacing her tone.

"Please," he rasped, begging. How could she say no when he asked so nicely?

When she made it back to her boys she was as collected and calm as she'd ever been, more than a match for their panic. She had breakfast ready when they stumbled awake.

She was twenty-two when Time first failed her.

For nine years it had always worked for her. Not always in the way she expected, sure, but something happened. Every single time.

But Bellatrix sat on her chest and cast Crucio after Crucio at point-blank range and Hermione shrieked and sobbed and wished and wished and wished. She wished even harder when the older witch abandoned her wand altogether and carved into the skin of her forearm. _Mudblood._ Now she could never escape it.

It was clear that Time would do nothing to help her, so she did what she did best- lied. Reminded herself that Harry wasn't far away and was perfectly unharmed. Reminded herself that she would undergo things far worse in order to keep him safe. She'd always said that she would do anything for him, but the words seemed so real now that she had to prove herself.

She would. She would do anything for him.

Hermione woke up in Shell Cottage hours later and cried.

Without asking for it, she found herself in the in-between, sitting before a plane full of those scenes. She didn't choose one, and Time didn't choose for her. It kept her there, giving her the safest possible place to break down.

"I _trusted_ you," she said aloud. "Why?"

There was no response, not that she'd expected one. Soon her hysterics ran their course and she lay there in stasis, trembling. Even her thoughts were numb, coming slowly and turning in lethargic circles.

The voices were audible for the first time, all of them saying the same thing, the same word. It sounded like Hermione was completely enveloped in a crowd chanting a mantra. "Necessary." This repeated for several moments until the voices faded back into incoherence.

 _Necessary_. How arrogant she must be, to have thought this to be a betrayal. How narcissistic she must be to believe that Time's rules didn't apply to her.

Her arm still hurt. Hell, her whole body hurt. Perhaps it would for a while, but if that was the way it was supposed to be then Hermione would accept it. Now that she was thinking clearly again, it became painfully obvious that this event would shape her personality and future actions. Since she'd been chosen as a tool to mold timelines into place it was imperative that she do the right things at the right times.

It was comforting, somehow, that this was always meant to happen.

The implications were unmistakable. Her blood status had been branded onto her skin, right there for anyone to see. She could hardly gad about in high society anymore, or associate with whomever she wished to with plausible deniability. Without any negative repercussions.

Danger would be everywhere. If purebloods were unfriendly in the progressive age of the 1990's then how would it be in the 1800's? The Dark Ages? It was bad enough that she was a woman, but without even the protection of good breeding she could look forward to pitfalls no matter which way she turned.

Was she up to the challenge? Of course.

Alphard didn't mind as much as she'd thought he would. For all that he was a genuinely good person with a fantastic sense of humor, he'd still been raised to hate people like her. He could have cursed her then and there, or turned his back on her entirely. Instead, he covered her forearm with his hand and gently pushed it back down to her side before capturing her lips in a kiss.

He didn't repudiate her, but he never did acknowledge those scars if he could help it. He never mentioned her blood status. As far as he was concerned, he'd never found out in the first place.

That was fine. Better than she'd expected, after all. Still, she didn't visit him as often as before.

Harry and Ron treated her simultaneously like glass and like a grenade. Easy to break, easy to explode. Silly boys, weren't they?

She loved them to death, she really did. But gods if she was starting to hate spending time around them. Escape was welcome and effortless, so she left often. Sometimes for only an hour, sometimes for weeks at a time. She visited every Triwizard tournament in history, participated in several Samhain festivals, went to the library in Alexandria, and met as many great philosophers and authors as she could think of. Returning to her boys was a monotonous cycle of moving, foraging for or stealing food, and trading snappish glares.

Inevitable as it was, Hermione still felt uneasy staring up at Hogwarts's towers, partially visible from Hogsmeade village.

Easy it may not be, but they would succeed. They always succeeded, no matter how the odds were stacked against them. That was always how it had been.

The illusion crumpled to dust at the sight of Harry's lifeless corpse.


	2. Part II

She perched atop a stack of crates in a back alley in 1351's Krakow, Poland, twirling a Transfigured pair of sunglasses in one hand and holding her wand by her side with the other. Piles upon piles of rats surrounded her, all dead. Many were horribly mutilated, from being turned entirely inside out to being trussed up by their intestines. Her hands were bloody. It wasn't enough.

The sunglasses spun, around and around, several times nearly slipping off of her finger. Hermione stared at the destruction she caused.

Harry had gone to Voldemort, as he was always meant to do. Apparently. But he never returned. Voldemort threw his body at their feet and crowed. Neville took care of the last Horcrux, and it was Professor McGonagall's curse that finally killed the Dark Lord. They mourned Harry, and celebrated the end of a tyranny. It wouldn't be easy to repair society, but it would be worth it.

Supposedly. In theory.

Hermione didn't want to test it. She didn't want to help rebuild. She didn't want to see a future with Harry as a martyr.

They were supposed to succeed _together,_ Ron, Harry, and her. Ron still lived, with most of his family intact. He was sad, sure, miserable, but his family helped ease the pain. He would heal, just like everything else.

Harry was gone, and there was nothing she could do to get him back. Harry was gone. He'd left her. After everything she'd done to keep him alive, he'd slipped away from her and met death willingly. Gladly, even. He wouldn't have thanked her even if she were able to change things. As much as she wanted to be angry with him, Hermione had to admit to herself that he deserved to finally rest.

She couldn't be angry with him, but she could be angry. Therefore, rats. Not that it helped a whole lot.

The blood was starting to dry and become sticky. She'd already taken an excessive amount of rats from miles in every direction, and Summoning more would solve nothing.

In a wink, Hermione was gone from Krakow and safe within the plane between times.

She lay prone on Alphard's bed in 1961's Cardiff, Wales, running her fingers over her bare stomach. Alphard was passed out beside her, snoring peacefully. The sheets were damp with sweat, and Hermione could see even in the dim light the proof of their exertions. Her body was sore. It wasn't enough.

Her skin was soft and smooth, and she traced around and around her navel. She stared at the bliss she'd caused.

Alphard was still gorgeous. He'd probably be gorgeous as a thousand-year-old man. It ran in his family and was especially strong in him. It was a wonder he never got married. Or maybe it wasn't. Here she was, in his bed, her legs still entwined with his. She was his first. She would be his best. The look in his eyes when he looked at her was wild and adoring, and Hermione knew instinctively that it was love. Maybe that was why he never married anyone.

She could learn to love him. It wouldn't be easy to overcome her inhibitions, but it would be worth it.

Supposedly. In theory.

Hermione didn't want to test it. She didn't want to stay with this one man. She didn't want to see a future where she was a housewife, or even a kept woman. No matter how safe it would have felt.

They weren't supposed to be together forever, Alphard and her. She knew how his life ended, and she wanted no part of that. He would be upset at her distance, but he would move on. Everyone does, eventually.

She couldn't love him, no matter how often she tried to convince herself in the meeting of their bodies. It hadn't helped a whole lot.

The sheets were starting to become cold and clammy. She'd done this too many times already, and trying any more would solve nothing.

In a wink, Hermione was gone from Cardiff and alone within the plane between times.

She stood with one foot pressing down on a man's chest in 1826's New York City, United States, watching him struggle for breath. They were alone in yet another dingy back alley, hidden from view from the street. The mans face was turning purple, and several of his bones were cracked. Power thrummed in her blood and tingled on her skin. It was starting to be enough.

He looked up at her in horror, eyes dark with mingled fear and, oddly, desire. The Muggle couldn't move through the Petrificus Totalus, which Hermione supposed wasn't exactly sporting but she couldn't bring herself to care. She lifted her foot and placed it on the ground beside his hip, moving the other foot forward as well. Then, slowly, she kneeled, sitting on his stomach and leaning forward so her face hovered above his. Oh, it was definitely desire she saw- what could she do to make it go away?

Perhaps this was a bit of an overreaction for drunken sexual assault. A bit of groping and leering was all it was, but she'd dragged him out here to have her wicked way with him, fully prepared to leave his mind and body broken or even lifeless. Had she come too far? Was she truly unhinged? Did it even matter? The Muggle still looked at her as if he would do it all over again, and that just couldn't go unpunished.

"Crucio," she said, lazily, in the same tone as if she were answering a stupid question. It was basic, but basic was all he really deserved. This would still be the worst night of his miserable life.

She could leave right now, and try to get back to the land of morality. Never do this again. Try to fix whatever had gone wrong in her mind that she would do this even knowing how awful it made her.

Supposedly. In theory.

Hermione didn't want to test it. She didn't want to stop this. This was the only thing that had given her even the tiniest bit of joy since Harry had left her.

There wasn't anyone meant for her after all. She was meant to walk between moments alone.

The man's eyes were wide and crazed, filled with all the panic of an animal dying. He couldn't move even to scream, even to close his eyes. Hermione danced her fingertips across his cheek, over his lips, up to his temple, down to his neck.

Should she kill him or leave him alive? His mind was gone already, she could see it. No point anymore. He would just be a nuisance to everyone around him.

"Avada Kedavra." Fondly, oh, so tenderly, she ended his suffering. It was like writing the final line in an essay, adding the signature to a painting, delivering the punchline in a joke. Closure. Finality. Triumph. It helped.

His corpse was becoming cold. Dead bodies held no appeal for her, but she would do this again.

In a wink, Hermione was gone from New York City and happy within the plane between times.

She waited with a bored expression in 1943's Diagon Alley, Great Britain, sipping Masala chai genteelly outside Rosa Lee Teabag. The future Dark Lord was strolling through the crowded street, arms laden with books. He appeared to have just come from Obscurus Books. To Hermione's mild surprise, he was alone, although she'd gathered that by this time in his life he had cronies aplenty, most of them with more money to their names than Hermione had seen in her entire life. His mouth was set in just such a way that he appeared friendly without actually having to make the effort. He didn't see her. That was fine.

The tea was growing cold. She stared at the boy gliding down the cobblestone road.

Hermione had grown tired of having no purpose, of being entirely unmarked by the physical world. She was tired of a lot of things, but most of all she'd grown tired of grieving. Not that she thought she would ever truly stop, but there was nothing she could do to fix things and so there was little point in tearing herself to pieces. She would make peace with this. She would study his murderer.

She would learn everything she could about Tom Riddle, and she would begin to heal.

Supposedly. In theory.

Hermione wanted to test this. She wanted to be happy again without needing to hurt something. She wanted her future to be bigger, more encompassing than that.

Time would take care of her, alone or not. It always did.

Perhaps Riddle finally felt her eyes bore into him. She'd like to think that was the case. He met her gaze steadily for one second, two... and then away. There was no reason for him to set her apart from anyone else in Diagon Alley, not yet.

Leaving her empty teacup on the delicate metal lawn table, Hermione disappeared, moving immediately to later that night. Much later. The sixteen-year-old boy slept in his tiny cot, a worn copy of _The Dark Forces_ cradled in his arms.

"Wake up, Voldemort," she said into his ear, smirking widely. His reaction was entirely as amusing as she'd thought it would be: he sat bolt upright so rapidly Hermione thought she could hear his bones creak, his eyes searching for her frantically. She was already on his other side, though, and she waited for him to realize. He turned his head forward once again before he caught her in his peripheral vision and startled wildly.

"Who are you?" Riddle demanded, breath heaving in his chest. "How do you know that name?"

Hermione crawled onto the cot, ignoring the loud squeaking of the springs, and settled at the foot of the cot with her legs folded. "Guess," she suggested, leaning forward so her elbows rested on the thin mattress. Her hands propped up her head. If she was correct, she appeared to be the perfect image of carelessness.

"That's a ridiculous expectation and you know it," Riddle snorted, starting to calm down. His muscles were still taut, Hermione noticed. Good.

"Is it?" She looked up at him, quirking one eyebrow. "Do I? How can you be sure?"

Riddle sighed, a condescending huff of breath that Hermione could easily imagine being coupled with an eye roll. "I've never seen you before in my life, in any context, and therefore can't be expected to select one of the infinite possibilities."

"Not entirely correct, but I'll allow it," she said flippantly. "Besides, I suppose you wouldn't be so stupid as to actually guess, knowing that it would be difficult to avoid giving away information to a stranger for free." Her head cocked to the side, but she kept the same serene expression. "There's also the whole sexism thing."

"'Sexism thing'?" Riddle parroted.

"It's the forties, mate. Most people have been conditioned to view women as factory-built toys who have only the same prerecorded phrases and not a brain cell to their names. You're one of those people, though you do also have that classism thing going against you. Not that that's really an excuse, but it does make me feel better about it. Everyone needs inferiors, right? And there are women everywhere. Easy targets."

"And why does that matter? How dare you think you know me?" Indignance was beginning to eclipse confusion, she saw. Fine.

She grinned. "I do know you, darling," she lied. "And doesn't that just make you itch? That I know you but you have no idea who I am? Of course it does."

Indignance was becoming anger. Hermione could see his hand clenching, clearly missing his wand. "Who are you?" he growled.

"Please. You couldn't do anything to me even if you were allowed to use your magic. Won't you thank me? I'm being nice, and not doing anything to get you in trouble. I could, you know. Just a little focused willpower is all." How easy leverage was when Traces were put on Muggle residences. How very, very, disappointingly easy. "But then again, you bore me. Even that might not even be worth the trouble."

Anger was becoming fury. Boring, indeed. "How _dare_ you?" he hissed, barely above a whisper.

"You don't even know how to respond, do you? You're entirely off balance. Maybe now you'll resort to-" Riddle lunged forward, hands going around her throat. _Finally_. "Violence," she choked out, still smiling, and then she disappeared.

She reappeared in an empty seat in his compartment on September 1st, weeks later. As always, no one noticed or reacted to her abrupt presence until several moments after.

"Out," Riddle commanded, murder in his eyes. It was clearly an order to his toadies, not to her. As if she would obey him anyway. Several boys took their leave of the compartment as quickly as they could, almost tripping on one another in their haste to remove themselves from the room. The compartment door slid shut. "I have my wand now," Riddle remarked, twirling the thing idly between his fingers.

Hermione chuckled. "Bully for you," she said. "I suggest you not try anything. This conversation would become a whole lot less fun for everyone involved. Well, maybe not everyone. I'm positive I would be vastly entertained." She slid over to the window and peaked out, turning her back on Riddle entirely. "It's actually nice today. Who would have thought?" It was sunny out, and looked fairly warm. The green of shrubbery and trees passed into and out of her line of sight so quickly it was a blur.

"You're magical, obviously," Riddle told her, completely ignoring all of her statements. "In an unTraceable way, given that I wasn't cited for unauthorized use of magic."

She still didn't look at him, but she could see in the ghost of a reflection that he was still seated across from her. "Good boy. However did you reach that conclusion? Some great leaps of logic there. Truly commendable work." She couldn't see his face, but she hoped it was beginning to cloud over with irritation.

"The sarcasm is entirely unnecessary," he responded coolly. "As I said before, I don't have enough data to piece you together just yet."

Maybe he'd learned from his first experience with her, or maybe he was just boiling on the inside. She'd find out soon enough. Unsettling this teenage boy should be simple. "I'm flattered. See, you'll have to actually work when you're with me. I have knowledge, and you want it, but you have to earn it. You're a quick learner, though. The gods know this would be such a chore otherwise."

"What kind of knowledge?" He disguised his greed well.

She stood and stepped closer before sitting lengthwise across his lap, tucking her feet between his legs and the seat. "What kind do you want?" Flustering him really was laughably simple. Still, it was the forties. She should give him some credit for not climaxing on the spot. Apparently even sociopaths were still just hormonal teenage boys in the end.

"Everything," he said, not quite hiding the husky note in his voice. Admirable effort, though.

"Remember," she told him, breath misting over his throat, "You have to earn it." Satisfied with the melodrama of the moment, Hermione touched her lips to the underside of his chin and vanished.

* * *

Playtoys weren't the only ones occupying Hermione's time. Often she visited Circe, a sorceress immortalized in legend. Her specialties were Transfiguration and Potions, though Hermione got the feeling that she wasn't exactly deficient in knowledge of the other subjects as well.

Circe did live on an island, in as opulent of a mansion as magic could provide. She was jealous and vindictive, wickedly funny, and devastatingly beautiful. Those things were true. It was also true that she used sex to gain and exercise her power. However, she didn't fall in love with her victims as the stories would suggest.

"He was handsome, to be sure," Circe told her of Odysseus. "Once all the dirt was gone. But he was arrogant and unfaithful, and I took him and destroyed him."

"And Penelope?" Hermione asked.

"I'm no virtuous woman. I knew full well I was wronging her, but I didn't care. I still don't. But he was witty enough, and if the gods wanted to help him then I could only assume he had something significant to offer." Circe scratched one nail into the wood of her table.

"Did he?"

"No, not really. He was boring in bed, too. He stayed with me a year- a whole year, can you imagine? He told me so often that he loved me, and it was all I could do not to laugh." Circe did laugh, pure mirth and no bitterness at all. "I pity his wife."

Hermione shared the sentiment. Any person who could be teased away from a person they claimed to love didn't deserve them. Didn't deserve anyone, really. She resolved then to never enter into a commitment without first verifying that she would never stray. Most likely that meant Hermione would never do it, because any one person couldn't satisfy her.

She visited Circe often. She taught Circe of patience, and Circe taught her of manipulation. A valuable trade, in Hermione's opinion.

The great men of history were so frequently the same in temperament. Sure, some were more wise and some more rash, but the ideas rarely changed. The hardships were similar. The reactions similar. It wasn't their fault; as long as history had existed men were squashed into the same mold. Women were as well, but where some bent to the pressure others twisted around the mold until the image was something else entirely.

Gods, but she loved women. Their kindnesses, their vengeance, everything. The good and the bad.

In a way, Hermione supposed they freed one another.

Sorceresses, she discovered, were made out to be evil creatures. Sorceresses, she discovered, were human. People.

Morgana le Fay, for example, was quiet and compassionate. She healed people and animals alike, whether or not they looked down on her. She hated being ignored. Unlike Circe, she fell in love easily. Every man was The One, and she gave them everything she had. These men didn't love her. They used her for her body and her adoration and refused to acknowledge her anywhere but in private. She was made to feel worthless.

Guinevere knew of this, and tried her best to keep Morgana from humiliating herself. Morgana, foolish girl that she was, didn't take well to the interfering.

The woman regretted her folly, and regretted making an enemy of her former close friend and confidante. She just felt too much. Empathy to the extremes.

Knowing the women behind the stories was fulfilling. Hermione couldn't help but feel that she was one of them, just as human. Perhaps they were villains, and perhaps the backstory didn't excuse the actions, but somehow knowing that people aren't simply born evil made her feel better.

Oh, yes, she knew she was rapidly approaching "evil". She'd killed people for sport, so what else could she possibly be? It was pointless to try to convince herself that she was good at heart.

The most useful thing she'd gained from these experiences was sex. Sex to disarm, sex to convince, sex to manipulate. No one was truly comfortable with sex without forcing themselves to be, so that kind of control was magnificently effective.

Tom Riddle would beg for her; she would make it so. She would drive him mad with touch and with words until he could think of nothing but touching her. Twisted, yes. Absolutely. But she could hardly torture him and killing was obviously not an option, so the humiliation of temptation would have to be enough.

She amused herself by appearing when he would be least prepared to handle her. Armed with a powerful Notice-Me-Not tailored specifically to not include Riddle, she would appear in the middle of class and bother him. Sometimes it was just staring at him from across his cauldron, and sometimes it was little tantalizing touches. She made sure to appear often, though not often for longer than a minute or two.

Her favorite thing to do, however, was show up in the middle of the night.

On one such occasion, it was nearly the end of the school year. He was exhausted from studying, and final exams had taken place that day. Riddle, she guessed, just wanted to sleep in peace for one night. Of course he couldn't, not when it would amuse Hermione so to drive him to violence.

"My Lord?" she hummed, her face hovering above his.

To his credit, he no longer woke in a panic. She did this far too often for him to be truly surprised. "What do you want now?" he asked, blinking sleepily.

"Don't you want to know my name?" she pouted, lowering herself until she skimmed his body. "And I have a surprise for you."

His hands grasped her wrists, keeping them anchored exactly where they were. Hermione didn't mind; he'd finally accepted that he couldn't control her. "What surprise?"

"Oh, not much," she breathed against his mouth. "Just some little things about Horcruxes, is all. Not terribly interesting to you, I'm sure." Her tongue snaked out and traced his lower lip before drawing his lip between her teeth and nipping gently.

"What's your name?" He was trying so hard to conceal the interest she'd sparked in him. That was one of the first things Slytherins learned, after all. Hermione knew better.

"Andromache," she said, pulling back just a few inches.

He understood immediately, to her delight. "Who am I, then, Pyrrhus?" His eyebrows furrowed, gaze still locked with her own.

"Not exactly," Hermione said. "I have nothing for you to threaten, much less a son."

Riddle glanced down at her lips and then back up to her eyes. "I should think you more like Hermione than Andromache."

"Do you think so?" Hermione purred. "So you are Orestes?"

"Perhaps." His grip on her wrists tightened, as if she'd tried to pull away. She hadn't. "Are you so changeable as Hermione is?"

"I'd hardly be a good judge of that, would I?" Hermione said. "Are you not curious about my gift for you?"

His hands twitched, a barely perceptible clenching and relaxing. "I am," he said. "Tell me."

"You haven't forgotten, have you?" She brought her face close to his again. "What will you do to earn it?"

Too fast for Hermione to react, Riddle released her wrists and pulled her head down to his. He kissed her like she'd imagined he would: teeth and bruising and pain. She hadn't thought she would like it, but a part of her that she didn't feel inclined to analyze at that moment returned every favor, savoring the taste of his tongue and his breath. His taste was unusually strong, bittersweet like dark chocolate.

She pulled away after a few seconds, reveling in the groan that tried to follow her mouth. His hands were still in her hair, and she could see in his face that he wanted to use the leverage to pull her back down. She could admire his restraint, for now. She would have him begging yet.

"You believe I would reward you for seeking your own gratification?" she asked. "Arrogant, aren't you?"

Riddle was intelligent enough to figure out what it was that she wanted from him. Possibly he already knew, and was testing to see if anything else would work. Unfortunately for him, Hermione wasn't easily swayed.

Training a person was remarkably similar to training a dog. She would handle Riddle in the same way that she would an excessively dominant dog: force him into a submissive position until he no longer fought it. Where she would make the dog lay down at her feet until she decided he could get up, she would make Riddle plead.

"There's no one here but me, _Tom_ , and you already know that I surpass you. Who better to show your humility to than me? This knowledge can only be attained through me, and only one way to convince me to share it." His eyes were clouding over with defiance. Good; she'd expected a challenge from him.

"No." His grip on her hair tightened, and Hermione had to ignore the net of pain across her scalp.

Instead of the grimace she knew he expected, Hermione smiled. "We'll see." And then she was gone and in Alphard's room. Teasing Riddle always got her worked up.

It occurred to her, laying down to sleep in an empty bed in an empty house, that she was doing wrong by everyone in her life. She dropped in and out of Alphard's life and his bed, keeping him fixated on her to the point where he would never even look at another woman. He didn't deserve that. She'd seen into his head, and she knew he loved her wholeheartedly, innocently, unreservedly, purely. Maybe he thought she loved him back. Maybe he didn't. Hermione wasn't sure which would be more sad.

She'd left Ron behind to deal with the fallout on his own. Hell, she'd left everyone behind. Ron had lost both of his best friends in a single day. By choice, the both of them, though Hermione hoped he didn't know that. It wasn't so much _leaving_ as _going_ , she supposed.

Of course she was doing wrong by Riddle, but he was the only one who deserved it. She couldn't even bring herself to feel guilty for exposing him to knowledge that would help him in his campaign. It had already happened, in a way, and things worked out fine on the macro level. Dark Lords are inevitable, and at least she had the power to shape this one.

Did she feel remorse? Shame? Sorrow? Not really. She'd turned things like that off for a little while. She slept peacefully that night.

Hermione popped in and out of Riddle's daily life just often enough to keep him on his toes. Sometimes she made sure only he noticed her. Sometimes she didn't. Sometimes she invaded his personal space. Sometimes she didn't. Sometimes she reminded him of her offer. Sometimes she didn't.

She made damn sure that Riddle knew he couldn't just ignore her. There were no wards he could use to keep her away, no spell he could use to hurt her, no _options_. She would bother him until she decided she was bored with it, and that would take an awfully long time.

Seven months it took him. Seven months of persistence and pestering and prying before he finally said that one measly word.

"Please." His face was entirely expressionless, as if masquerading as marble would make up for the vulnerability of his begging.

Rather than gloating, she just smiled and said, "Hepzibah Smith possesses two of the Founders' relics, Slytherin's Locket and Hufflepuff's Cup. She's a sucker for a pretty face, and you certainly have that."

"That's all you have, then?" Riddle asked, unimpressed.

"Oh, no!" she laughed. "I have so much more than that. But for a single word, that's all you get. Pretty pleading promotes plentiful profit, don't you know."

As if he'd realized at last that they were only words, Riddle seemed to immediately resign himself to his situation. "I beg of you, give me that I desire."

"Not horribly specific or expressive, but definitely improvement. Deserves a reward, don't you think?"

When it became clear that it wasn't a rhetorical question, Riddle nodded impatiently.

Hermione seized the front of his robes and tugged him close, kissing him fiercely in exactly the way she'd discovered he liked. "I'll give you a few minutes of my time, My Lord," she murmured against his mouth. "Undress me." She double-checked that the glamour on her arm was still intact.

He didn't need any encouragement, it seemed, because without even breaking their kiss he set to work on unbuttoning her robes. Hermione wore several layers of clothing, usually, so even after her robes lay crumpled on the end of the bed she was still in a skirt and a blouse. Rather than waste more time on tiny buttons, Riddle grasped the fabric on either side of the collar and pulled, tearing it off of her.

Taking pity on him, Hermione unclasped her bra herself. Having her breasts bared before him only caused the slightest twinge of discomfort, and even that vanished at the sight of the pure greed in his eyes.

"I'll tell you when to stop," she said.

* * *

She watched him make his Horcruxes. It was a sickening process, to be sure, but Hermione wasn't nearly disturbed as she should have been. What did that say about her? Plenty. It meant that she'd gone too far. Further than killing perverts in alleyways. Further than fostering a Dark Lord.

It meant she might as well be just like him. Not stupid or egotistical enough to try to take over, but just as reprehensible of a person. Dark, evil, truly and completely.

How did she get here? Was this side of her lying dormant her whole life? Or was it how she reacted to complete freedom?

Circe laughed at her, laughed until tears came to her eyes. "It took you this long to realize? Anyone who knows you can see it. It's not a bad thing, not really. Things like that are decided by those with weak minds, those who fear being hurt. You might be evil, but that's fine. The story needs villains, too."

Hermione shaped Time and Time shaped Hermione. What was there left for her but to surrender to it? Gods, but she was tired. Exhausted and exhilarated. She'd never been so fulfilled.

She was many years old and many different people by the time she gave in. She was the mysterious figure walking alone in the park, the charismatic vixen who charmed men at parties. She was a seductress and a murderer and a demon.

It was okay. Everything would be okay. After all, Time chose her for a reason, right?


End file.
